


Pulse

by who_is_sabrina



Category: Republic of Doyle
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29918400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/who_is_sabrina/pseuds/who_is_sabrina
Summary: Des is on the verge of panic after witnessing Jake's most recent brush with death. Jake uses it as a teaching moment. Set around the latter half of season 3.
Relationships: Jake Doyle & Des Courtney
Kudos: 1





	Pulse

Des should be used to this—to Jake in the hospital.

With his hot temper, recklessness, and dangerous profession, Jake ended up here a lot. Sitting, slouching, or lying down in a rickety hospital cot, surrounded by varying degrees of medical staff and equipment. Most of the time Jake wore his own clothes, but sometimes they were swapped for a hospital gown, and on one memorable occasion, he had arrived in Des’ flannel shirt, complete with a new bloodstain. Usually Jake sat on the edge of the bed, itching to leave and trying to accomplish that as soon as possible, by way of protests, lies, or manipulation. Sometimes he sat back against pillows, begrudgingly undergoing treatment while bickering with Mal. Other times, he said nothing at all, still and silent in unconsciousness. Though the details of the situation were different each time—shifting like a recurring dream—the fundamental circumstance was the same. Jake. In the hospital.

Des should handle it like Mal, concern masked with annoyance and glossed over with well-chosen insults and threats. Or like Rose, with her unflappable confidence in the persistence of the Doyles. Or even like Tinny, with her supportive presence and quiet, inconspicuous worry. But Des could never manage to rein in his spastic disposition, especially in a place as nerve-wracking as the hospital, and especially when his best friend had been hurt.

This time, though, Des was handling it even worse. He wrung his hands as he paced the limited length of the room, reminding himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t be freaking out. Jake was conscious and acting like himself, if a little tired. He would have no lasting damage. And Mal had gone off to round up Jake’s doctor to get his hands on a release form. Any minute now, he would come back through the door, and the three of them would be on their way home, free and clear.

And yet Des’ heart thrummed wildly in his chest as he paced the room faster and faster. This time was different, his insides screamed. This time, Des had been there, had seen it for himself. His breathing hitched as he recalled Jake sprawled on the asphalt, the red and blue ambulance lights strobing against the night. The high-pitched wail of the A.E.D. The urgent, tension-strung shouts of the medical professionals that blocked Des’ view of Jake. The carefully schooled tone of the paramedic who led Des to the back of another ambulance and tried to veil his horror with a shock blanket.

“Des, stop.” Jake’s sharp command slammed Des back into the present. He froze mid-pace, his back to Jake as he blinked at the scuffed tiles of the hospital room. The floor blurred. Something burned behind Des’ eyes.

“What’s up?” Des tried to respond evenly, but it didn’t work. He swallowed and looked up at a smear of friendly primary colors. Several blinks later, it resolved into an informational poster about disease prevention during flu season.

“Stop freaking out,” Jake said.

“Me?” Des asked, finally trusting himself enough to turn and face his accuser. He gave Jake a semblance of an indignant scoff. “I’m not freaking out.”

“Yeah, you are. So stop it.” Jake pointed threateningly at Des for a moment, then lowered his hand and proceeded to slide the IV out of his own arm.

Des blanched and turned away, balling his hands into trembling fists. He bounced on his heels for a moment, weighing the urge to pace against the power of Jake’s authority.

He didn’t move.

“Seriously, Des.” This time, Jake’s voice was tempered slightly, in the way that meant he was consciously trying to be nice to Des. “Don’t worry so much, all right? You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack, and you’re too young for that kinda thing. Just relax.”

“I am relaxing,” Des said aloud, hoping the words would trick his body into following suit. “I’m relaxed.” He took a deep, deliberate breath and focused on the steady rhythm of the heart monitor.

Chandra had told him about A.E.D.s once. Des had always imagined that they restarted someone’s heart, but she had laughed at that. They stopped the heart momentarily, she explained, so that it could restart itself with a regular rhythm.

Des recalled the whine of the A.E.D. as it charged. The nameless paramedic’s hand on his elbow, leading him away from the chaos. Jake’s heart had stopped. Only for a moment. But the moment had happened.

Gritting his teeth, Des tried to concentrate on the heart monitor again. The steady beeping was an auditory reminder that Jake was no longer splayed out on grimy asphalt. That when Des turned, Jake would be there. Awake. Alert. Alive.

Taking another breath, Des gathered himself and turned back to Jake, who was indeed alert, watching Des with a crease between his eyebrows—a familiar look of mixed disbelief and disapproval.

Des cracked. “Okay, okay,” he said, hurrying to Jake’s bedside and flailing his hands in desperation. “I was totally freaking out. I’m sorry. I’m still kind of freaking out and I don’t know what to do. But don’t worry—I’m not gonna have a heart attack. At least, I don’t think I am because I think I’m too young, but wow, man, I’m definitely freaking out here.” Des rubbed the back of his neck uncertainly and gulped down another inhale before rushing on. “I mean, I know you’ve been in worse shape than this, really, and you’re good now, but holy crap, Jake, that was really freaking scary for me, and I think it’s, like, burned into my mind—”

Jake was watching him with widened eyes. He had made no move to stop Des’ frantic rambling yet.

“—and I keep hearing that sound—” Des gestured nonsensically— “of the A.E.D. charging up, like this high-pitched whining sound, almost like a plane taking off, but not really? And it just makes me really, really nervous, Jake, and I just—”

“Des.”

“Back when I was dating Chandra—Remember her? Of course you do. She was telling me about A.E.D.s this one time, and—”

“Des.”

“—she says they’re used to stop—”

“Des, _shut up_.”

Des stopped with his mouth open, the words dying in his throat. He swallowed convulsively and looked at Jake.

“Calm down.” Jake eyed Des, his jaw set in the particular way that meant he was serious, but not angry. “Gimme a second without your inane babbling, okay?”

Des opened his mouth, then decided he didn’t trust himself to speak. He shut it again and nodded, settling on watching Jake in silence.

Jake’s gaze had wandered off, but his light eyes were clear and calculating. Des had seen the look on him a dozen times in the last week alone—quick thinking. Problem solving. Des waited, trying to quell the anxious twisting of his stomach.

The problem was that Jake wasn’t great with sentiment. It was one of the first things you learned about him, after his taste for leather jackets, his love for his GTO, and his quickdraw temper. He and Mal said _I love you_ with sharp insults and feigned malice. His affection for Des never came in hugs but in slaps and yelling and threats of bodily harm. So now that Des was toeing the line of emotional wreckage, what solution could Jake offer? He would never put an arm around Des’ shoulders and speak quiet words of comfort. He wouldn’t offer a hug and a reassuring promise. Nor would he share his own vulnerabilities with Des so they could bond in commiseration.

Des wiped his clammy palms on the fabric of his jeans. Maybe he should go to Tinny instead. Tell her how bone-chillingly horrifying it was to know that Jake’s heart had stopped, if only for a moment. How strange and wrong and unacceptable it had been to be shepherded away from him while he lay there dying or dead, encircled by shouting paramedics and flashing lights and an A.E.D. that shrieked in the darkness.

With effort, Des stilled his hands. They had been trembling again.

“Des.”

Des jumped, startled by the sudden intrusion of Jake’s fierce confidence. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Do you know how to take a pulse?”

“Uh…” Des blinked, thrown by the unexpected line of questioning. “Sort of? I’ve seen you and Mal do it before. Somewhere on the wrist, right?”

Jake nodded. “It’s the radial artery,” he said, lifting his arm and pointing out the spot on his wrist.

Des shifted his weight. “Uh-huh.” If Jake was trying to distract him, it wasn’t going to work. Des had already tried reading every medical pamphlet in the waiting room, but his mind kept coming back to—

Jake snapped in Des’ face. “Pay attention. This is part of your training.” Jake extended his fingers. “Gimme your hand.”

Instantly, Des flashed back to the last time Jake had tried to ‘train’ Des in the hospital. He drew his hand to himself protectively. “You’re not gonna handcuff me to the bed again, are you?”

“Yes, b’y,” Jake said, scowling, “with these handcuffs hidden in my hospital gown.”

“Just learning from my mistakes,” Des murmured petulantly, placing his hand obediently in Jake’s.

“You use your pointer and middle fingers, like this.” Jake arranged Des’ hand into the proper position. “Place the tips of those fingers on the radial artery, here.” He directed Des’ hand to his wrist, and Des pressed his fingers into Jake’s skin.

“Don’t press too hard. You’re cutting off the circulation.”

“Sorry!” Des moved to snatch his hand away, but Jake stopped him.

“No, no, it’s fine. Just rest your fingers lightly over the artery.” Jake moved Des’ fingers back into position. “Apply just enough pressure to feel the pulse.”

Des let his fingers hover over the spot for another moment. “Okay,” he said. “I can do this.” Slowly, carefully, he lowered his fingertips over Jake’s radial artery.

There was movement beneath his fingers.

“Whoa!” Des almost pulled back in surprise, but managed to still his hand at the last second. “I feel it.” The blood—Jake’s blood—was flowing beneath Des’ fingers, pulsing through the vein with forceful vitality. Each beat of his heart was recorded against Des’ fingertips, tangible and incontrovertible proof of life.

Des grinned. “This,” he said, “is awesome.”

“See that machine over there?” Jake nodded in the direction of the heart monitor, where the screen displayed his heart rate in beats per minute. “You can get a quick estimate of that number by yourself. Just count the number of beats in fifteen seconds and multiply that by four.”

“Fifteen seconds,” Des repeated. “Multiply it by four. Got it.”

“You’re gonna be tested on this.”

“No, no, I totally got it.” Still keeping his fingers on Jake’s wrist, Des reached his free hand into his pocket and fished out his phone, pulling up the timer. He set it for fifteen seconds, waved it happily in Jake’s face, then pressed start.

As the seconds ticked by, he counted.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

With each pulse of Jake’s blood, some of the tension seeped out of Des’ shoulders. His own heart rate seemed to slow, to match Jake’s steady pace. He concentrated on the rhythm of Jake’s survival, and his earlier fears bled away. The scream of the A.E.D. and the pull of the paramedic gave way to a string of numbers and a tactile assurance.

When the alarm on his phone blared, Des stopped it with a simple tap and did the mental math.

“Well?” Jake asked, as Des glanced at the monitor.

“Yes!” Des pumped his fists. “I was only 2 beats per minute off!”

Jake grinned and tossed Des’ phone back to him. “Good work,” he said.

Des beamed, then turned at the sound of footsteps.

Mal strode through the door, followed by a nurse who laid Jake’s clothes neatly on the bed and began unhooking the medical equipment.

“Ready to go?” Mal asked, slapping a clipboard on the plastic side table. He folded his arms and frowned down at Jake. “Or would you like to traumatize Des some more first?”

“Ha, ha.” Jake rolled his eyes and signed the forms.

Des moved to stand beside the window, hanging back out of the way while Jake pulled on his clothes and Mal alternated between chatting politely with the nurse and berating his son.

It occurred to Des that Jake could have taught him to take his own pulse, rather than having him try it on Jake. Des could just as easily have learned by pressing his fingers to his own radial artery, reading his own frantic heart rate. Instead, Jake had offered himself, allowing Des to feel the truth that his anxious thoughts mistrusted: Jake was alive.

Des smiled to himself, leaning back against the warm, sun-soaked hospital window. Jake had devised a way to calm Des down without one single word of sympathy or reassurance. But of course he had. That was the next thing you learned about Jake, after the jackets, the car, the temper, and the artful avoidance of sentiment. He was a hell of a lot cleverer than you’d think.


End file.
